Sentiment
by bre.laverne
Summary: "Love is so short, forgetting is so long." Two years too long. And, like Mycroft says, sentiment is useless. He can't feel it anymore, hasn't felt it, or anything in years. Mary gave up, Molly gave up, Lestrade never even tried. After all, how can you console someone who lost someone unlike anyone else, who left a hole in life so large it couldn't be filled, or even healed.


The air was salty on his lips, Sherlock's grave unforgiving as it sat in the dim of an almost setting sun. Mary's final words replayed in his head like an awful pop song, ripping at the last strands of his sanity.

"You're living with the dead John. I-I can never be him. I wish I could, for you, but I can't. Goodbye John" She had tugged on his hand as she'd left, taking her stuff with her in a suitcase John could only remember as the bag Sherlock had come home with on their first case together. The slam of his flat door was the last sound he'd really heard, the rest of the day a dulled by the whiskey that burned in his stomach, countering the burning stabs attacking his chest every time he thought of what he'd lost. He'd walked from the flat, limp growing more pronounced with each step, threatening to give out.

"Goodbye John" Sherlock's broken last words filtering through his mind like dark stars, exploding behind his eyes as his leg finally gave out. Ice gave way to heat as his knees slammed unprotected into the grass. His hands fisted in the grass, as he gave way to the wrenching sobs fighting for dominance against his military control. It was all gone. Even after Sherlock's death he'd been able to hold it together, though the echoes of him were in every corner, threatening to overwhelm the iron control he'd forged. The funeral was the worst, small with a priest Sherlock would have hated preaching about "love" and "family." Mycroft had left partway through, and john had followed to toss him about for leaving so... until he saw him hunched in the car, dry sobs muffled by the door.

Such a powerful thing sentiment.

Lestrade had locked himself in his office after finding out, coming out hours later, rede around the edges. Anderson had just snorted and muttered that the cheeky bastard was bound to do it sometime, anyone that awful should. And he had continued to chuckle slightly until John tackled him, slamming his fists into his face over and over, taking his pain out on the rat bastards face. Lestrade had denied pressing charges, though Anderson was in a coma for a week and needed reconstructive surgery. Molly cried for days, not unlike Mrs. Hudson who went into a gloom so unlike her John continued to check on her hourly, only to see her sobbing into colder and colder cups of tea she never even began drinking.

Mary was the only one who understood. At least at the beginning. She had just patted his shoulder and let him take out his frustration out on the walls of the flat, and hecklers, until he had punched out their waiter who had recognized him from his blog and asked about the 'fake" genius. It was a week before the wedding when she'd started sleeping at her own flat, tired of him waking up mid-scream.

Empty of sobs he began to dry heave against the grass, choking on his own pain. A thud distracted him, black glittering against the grass, his loaded revolver a grim thought in the back of his head. A demon pushed at his mind, whispering grab it in his ears, the oh- so - sweet promise of death a sweet on it's lips.

Rocking back onto his knees he grabbed it, his finger wrapping around the trigger of the revolver as he tapped it between his eyes. A sigh escaped his trembling lips, freedom, so sweet was on the horizon, the tide coming in around his ankles, pulling him under.

It was surprisingly easy to add more pressure to the trigger. More and more...

"Don't" The low growl hung on the air, notes twisting into a bitter harmony. _Sherlock. _John re-adjusted the weapon firmly between his eyes. "John." The voice rang out again.

"Go away" But the ghost of Sherlock stayed with him, phantom hand on his shoulder.

"Stop this, you're not _REAL_" He had dreamed of this, of Sherlock being alive and coming back to him, he was dead, and now he was going to join him. "Goodbye Sherlock" He yanked on the tigger, nearly pissing himself when a strong hand jerked the weapon into the air a millisecond before, sending a bullet rocketing into the night sky. Whipping around, his stomach dropped around his knees as he saw Sherlock standing behind him, pale and shaking.

"Y-yo-y-you're" his voice broke off, his throat thin and full, his voice hidden behind a wall of tears he refused to shed.

"John." It was clipped, short, three years of apologies lingering on his prowling tone. Fury turned the sky red as he charged, tacking Sherlock onto the grass, his fist connecting with the harsh cheekbones he so loved to boast. His fist made a sickening sound as it connected, sending Sherlock to the side, rubbing his cheek.

He fixed his eyes firmly on John's, unblinking. He was real. And alive. Sherlock sat up, pulling John up to sit beside him, his hand lingering, proof of life.

Sherlock held the hand that had clutched a gun only moments ago, his face pallid as he shook slightly.

"There should never be a world without John Watson." His voice was harsh, cold, his anger like frostbite on his lips.

A harsh chuckle escaped around the ever growing lump on John's chest, wiggling around the anvil sitting on his lungs to ring harsh on the air, laced with the sour sound of swallowing agony.

He tried to pull away, gather himself. Sentiment, was, after all, a powerful and useless tool in this moment, sitting on his chest aching, while sweet elation began to eat at the bitter taste of sorrow that had lodged itself on his tongue.

Sherlock refused, pulling him into a tight hug, his heart pounding against John's, a trace of the fear he had felt. John's face pressed against his ear, his whisper broken.

"There should never be a world without Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock smiled slightly, against John's ear, his hug tightening as his heart slowed.

Sentiment was, after all, such a powerful thing.


End file.
